I have decided to risk it! I have applied for a job at heat magazine. Yes. The gossip rag.
There might be a few left with the illusion that I'm not merely intelligent but classy too so I'm sorry to crack your bubble but: I'm addicted to TV, Movies and celebrity gossip.
Okay, Paris and Britney bore me, but give me Brangalina any day! Lohan is entertainment du jour and I love...okay. wait.
So. I've applied for a job at one of the coolest celebrity goss rags in the world: Heat magazine. It's a nifty little thing. Very little actual reading has to be done, the pages are glossy (I do love gloss) and the A4 size and the considerate thinness of the magazine (must be the way that gloss attaches to each other) make the magazine easily rollable, foldable and therefore hideable (I have this intellectual reputation I'm cultivating).
The only problem came when they said in the ad that one had to demonstrate one's humour. This, for a very funny person like myself, is not a good thing. Do not ask me to demonstrate my humour. The pressure! So naturally, re-reading my email sent to them, I realised that humour did not actually come accross as much as a serious botched attempt at humour.
I am praying the editor is in a forgiving and emphathetic mood, and see's 'beyond' my attempt.
Okay, okay. I probably won't get the job. But hey. I tried. I touched the tiny toe of the wonderous vehicle of celebrity gossip!
PS I realise that by saying I'm funny I'm probably not. But I can think of 2 people RIGHT NOW, who would laugh when they see me. I'm funny just by showing up.
May 29, 2007
May 24, 2007
Commentary
Two comments have hit me in the gut this week.
First Comment:
Made by: Doctor
Known about Doctor: Married, Young, 1 infant, Devout Christian
Doctor comes to our bistro quite regularly. Mostly he comes early in the morning at about 7am. The other day we realised why he was there so early. He goes to "Male Bible Study" at 5.45 am twice a week. Yes. He emphasised that it is a male only group. In Otjiwarongo, this is not a peculiar thing. My father belongs to a 'male only' club. They get together and get drunk. I don't know what further purpose his "Harde Horing" Club has. Yes. Really. Harde Horings they call themselves.
Anyway, to get back to the point. The Doctor has recently been sitting by the 'toonbank', the bar where most regulars drink coffee in the mornings. The reason for his sudden appearance at the 'regular' table is that he was the doctor on attendance when friends were recently involved in a car accident. Our friend died. Her husband remains, critically, alive.
So. Now that he's part and party to the regular's table we talk to him.
And somehow the conversation the other morning turned to psychology and hypnosis. And people who murder. And homosexuals. And he casually mentioned that for a long time he believed the theory that homosexuality was genetic, such as depression etc, but he realised recently that "God maak nie foute nie"(Translation for those who do not read Afrikaans: God doesn't make mistakes"). So, homosexuality was created after birth by turning 'keys' in an individuals mental makeup and thus the 'fout' (mistake) was created.
I almost chocked on my coffee. And, as usual lately, I remained silent, got on my bike and pedalled to work.
Second Comment:
Made by: miniboer
Known about miniboer: Works with coal, divorced, father of 2
The second comment came today, again from a regular, again at the Bistro's bar. The 'regular', let's call him miniboer (make of that what you will, but the mini does not refer to his rather huge, flappy stomach) was going through a Times magazine. One feature had a large picture of a woman in a miniskirt and torn pantyhose, sitting on the floor with her legs folded under her. As he saw the picture he piped up: "And they wonder when they get raped".
Luckily I had finished my coffee by then. Yet again, I said nothing, ignoring my beating heart and the furious anger inside, got on my bike and pedalled to work.
I do not have to say anything further.
It occurs to me however, that Danella and I will certainly not be bringing home any boys from the 'dorp' anytime soon. Conversation would soon give way to homicide. The question remains, who will grab for the knive first?
First Comment:
Made by: Doctor
Known about Doctor: Married, Young, 1 infant, Devout Christian
Doctor comes to our bistro quite regularly. Mostly he comes early in the morning at about 7am. The other day we realised why he was there so early. He goes to "Male Bible Study" at 5.45 am twice a week. Yes. He emphasised that it is a male only group. In Otjiwarongo, this is not a peculiar thing. My father belongs to a 'male only' club. They get together and get drunk. I don't know what further purpose his "Harde Horing" Club has. Yes. Really. Harde Horings they call themselves.
Anyway, to get back to the point. The Doctor has recently been sitting by the 'toonbank', the bar where most regulars drink coffee in the mornings. The reason for his sudden appearance at the 'regular' table is that he was the doctor on attendance when friends were recently involved in a car accident. Our friend died. Her husband remains, critically, alive.
So. Now that he's part and party to the regular's table we talk to him.
And somehow the conversation the other morning turned to psychology and hypnosis. And people who murder. And homosexuals. And he casually mentioned that for a long time he believed the theory that homosexuality was genetic, such as depression etc, but he realised recently that "God maak nie foute nie"(Translation for those who do not read Afrikaans: God doesn't make mistakes"). So, homosexuality was created after birth by turning 'keys' in an individuals mental makeup and thus the 'fout' (mistake) was created.
I almost chocked on my coffee. And, as usual lately, I remained silent, got on my bike and pedalled to work.
Second Comment:
Made by: miniboer
Known about miniboer: Works with coal, divorced, father of 2
The second comment came today, again from a regular, again at the Bistro's bar. The 'regular', let's call him miniboer (make of that what you will, but the mini does not refer to his rather huge, flappy stomach) was going through a Times magazine. One feature had a large picture of a woman in a miniskirt and torn pantyhose, sitting on the floor with her legs folded under her. As he saw the picture he piped up: "And they wonder when they get raped".
Luckily I had finished my coffee by then. Yet again, I said nothing, ignoring my beating heart and the furious anger inside, got on my bike and pedalled to work.
I do not have to say anything further.
It occurs to me however, that Danella and I will certainly not be bringing home any boys from the 'dorp' anytime soon. Conversation would soon give way to homicide. The question remains, who will grab for the knive first?
May 22, 2007
Winter
I woke up this morning and winter had most certainly arrived in Namibia.
Wore fur-lined boots and my polo neck to work today. A mere 6 months ago it was so hot, the thought of a polo neck would have choked me.
Ah, winter in Namibia. A wonder.
Here, the sky become bright blue, and the air cuts through our homes and clothes like a
scream on a dark night.
The air becomes so clear, you can drink it, draw it, drop it.
The cats stay close by and one or two even snuggle up to you, which is the best thing so far about winter.
When I scratch the cats back or pull my hands through my hair, you hear the cold and fizz and you know, winter is here.
It is cool cool cool.
Here's to cold face and noses, hands and feet and knees beneath my skirt!
Ho, ho, winter is here!
Wore fur-lined boots and my polo neck to work today. A mere 6 months ago it was so hot, the thought of a polo neck would have choked me.
Ah, winter in Namibia. A wonder.
Here, the sky become bright blue, and the air cuts through our homes and clothes like a
scream on a dark night.
The air becomes so clear, you can drink it, draw it, drop it.
The cats stay close by and one or two even snuggle up to you, which is the best thing so far about winter.
When I scratch the cats back or pull my hands through my hair, you hear the cold and fizz and you know, winter is here.
It is cool cool cool.
Here's to cold face and noses, hands and feet and knees beneath my skirt!
Ho, ho, winter is here!
May 21, 2007
Cannibalism
Yesterday I ate a Koeksister.
Now, thinking about it in guilt, I realised it sounded almost as if I'd eaten a pious prude. A pious, Afrikaans prude.
burp
Now, thinking about it in guilt, I realised it sounded almost as if I'd eaten a pious prude. A pious, Afrikaans prude.
burp
May 18, 2007
Rural Facts
A bistro is very similar to hairdressers. It seems that when you comb people's hair or pour coffee for them, you become the receiver of much information, gossip and other stories, whether you want this information or not. It seems to be the way of things.
My mother is the owner of a small, leafy-green bistro, which has become a regular spot with some people. The regulars. One of these is the local magistrate, a small, tight little man called Christie. I'm sure he's got some imposing Afrikaans surname, but in the mornings, sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and telling us tales, he is only Christie.
Christie imparted this little gem to us the other morning: “The weight of all the ants beneath the earth is more than that of all animals and humans on top of the earth.”
Gems like these keep me smiling.
And Thinking. What if the ants decide to invade? Do we stand a chance?
My mother is the owner of a small, leafy-green bistro, which has become a regular spot with some people. The regulars. One of these is the local magistrate, a small, tight little man called Christie. I'm sure he's got some imposing Afrikaans surname, but in the mornings, sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and telling us tales, he is only Christie.
Christie imparted this little gem to us the other morning: “The weight of all the ants beneath the earth is more than that of all animals and humans on top of the earth.”
Gems like these keep me smiling.
And Thinking. What if the ants decide to invade? Do we stand a chance?
May 16, 2007
Namibian Nice and Accurate Winter Tale (Vol 1, Part 2)
The masseuse was angry. Alas, I explained, that I had not been able to get my hands on the ointment yet. I had to lay down an oath, that tonight, after my shower, I would an-oint myself, my belly, my back, under my arms, my legs, the souls of my feet. I oathed and she was sort of okay again.
The reason for the splat with my masseuse? When she put oil on my back to start the massage, she had to reoil me three times because my skin was so dry it kept on soaking up the oil so hungrily that not a drop (nay, not a Drop) was left to masseuse with.
I shall tonight an-oint myself with the golden liquid.
Such dryness. It makes me think of Savannah.
The reason for the splat with my masseuse? When she put oil on my back to start the massage, she had to reoil me three times because my skin was so dry it kept on soaking up the oil so hungrily that not a drop (nay, not a Drop) was left to masseuse with.
I shall tonight an-oint myself with the golden liquid.
Such dryness. It makes me think of Savannah.
Hindsight
It has occured to me, while reaching down to put some paper in the recycle basket, that the below post and it's description of Namibians dry skin renders us in a possibly parcular looking light.
Do you see a bunch of scaley, brown Namibians running around scratching their asses while in the distance a guru is handing out the secret ointment to slavvering, praising Namibians on their knees?
I do.
Perhaps we are the alien race.
Ha. Who would have thunk it?
Slavvering (verb)- a specifically namibian action denoting a kneeling position in praise of secret ointment.
Slavvering (adjective) derived from verb (see: slavvering): a human wail, caused by excessively dry skin.
Do you see a bunch of scaley, brown Namibians running around scratching their asses while in the distance a guru is handing out the secret ointment to slavvering, praising Namibians on their knees?
I do.
Perhaps we are the alien race.
Ha. Who would have thunk it?
Slavvering (verb)- a specifically namibian action denoting a kneeling position in praise of secret ointment.
Slavvering (adjective) derived from verb (see: slavvering): a human wail, caused by excessively dry skin.
Flakey bums
Winter in Namibia is setting in and this is what I've noticed so far:
Your bum skin gets dry. The dryer the bum the itchier it gets. I have a feeling Namibians profusely scratch bums this time of the year. Bum scratch time. Scratchy bums.
Bum skin. What a thought!
In Namibia it does not rain in winter. The sun shines all the time. Except for the freak droplets of rain which fell on Saturday. But thats global warming for you.
Dry skin. Skin as dry as the sand around us. Skin as dry as a that flakey fake skin the snakes let go off. Dry dry dry. Summary of a country and it's people.
Nivea does good business here.
But a true Namibian knows the secret cure for dry skin. Badenhorst ointment. Shh. Made right her in Otjiwarongo (TM)
Noses get dry.
Noses get wet.
Your toes are cold in the mornings. For the moment, it is only really cool in the mornings and the evenings. During the day it's back to p-t shorts (for the boers) and t-shirts (for all of us). So it's no use to clad your feet in anything closed, it gets too hot still during the day.
Result: cold toes.
Luckily, beer still tastes damn good, no matter the temperature and cold toes.
Bum bee bum.
End of update on Namibian Nice and Accurate Winter Tales (Part 1 , Vol 1)
dum bum bee
Your bum skin gets dry. The dryer the bum the itchier it gets. I have a feeling Namibians profusely scratch bums this time of the year. Bum scratch time. Scratchy bums.
Bum skin. What a thought!
In Namibia it does not rain in winter. The sun shines all the time. Except for the freak droplets of rain which fell on Saturday. But thats global warming for you.
Dry skin. Skin as dry as the sand around us. Skin as dry as a that flakey fake skin the snakes let go off. Dry dry dry. Summary of a country and it's people.
Nivea does good business here.
But a true Namibian knows the secret cure for dry skin. Badenhorst ointment. Shh. Made right her in Otjiwarongo (TM)
Noses get dry.
Noses get wet.
Your toes are cold in the mornings. For the moment, it is only really cool in the mornings and the evenings. During the day it's back to p-t shorts (for the boers) and t-shirts (for all of us). So it's no use to clad your feet in anything closed, it gets too hot still during the day.
Result: cold toes.
Luckily, beer still tastes damn good, no matter the temperature and cold toes.
Bum bee bum.
End of update on Namibian Nice and Accurate Winter Tales (Part 1 , Vol 1)
dum bum bee
May 15, 2007
Rest in peace Freides
In memory of Freides Bierberg, a friend and a wonderful woman.
Where words still fail me at the moment, I hope that the poet Auden can express in some way, with his poem to a dear friend, how we are feeling now.
"'Funeral Blues'
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-- W.H. Auden"
Where words still fail me at the moment, I hope that the poet Auden can express in some way, with his poem to a dear friend, how we are feeling now.
"'Funeral Blues'
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-- W.H. Auden"
May 10, 2007
May 7, 2007
Rural Notes
Notes on a rural life:
A quiet Saturday night.
Quitting your job and two weeks later getting it back because you need it and they need it and no hard feelings. In fact, you have a little laugh and it's all blamed on pms.
A one-bedroomed flat, with a lounge, a huge kitchen, a huge bathroom (shower and bath), bedroom with built-in cupboards and a big outside yard, all in a very secure, quiet neighbourhood, for N$1000.00 per month.
A landlady who you know personally because she drinks coffee at your bistro everyday.
Pedalling to work on your bycicle. There and back in 5 minutes.
Driving to your sisters flat in the morning, at 7.30 and not passing ONE single car. This is morning traffic.
Shameless affairs.
Fitness classes with a guy called Mohamed (he of the steel) and meeting a woman they call "Get Lucky Sheila".
Fittness classes with a guy called Mohammed in an old, downfallen building with a sign that proclaims "Agra".
Fittness classes.
Steaks that come on extra big plates because they do not fit on the normal plates.
Driving to Windhoek, which is 320km away, for a party.
1 hour lunch breaks
Half-day off from work on your birthday.
Racism.
Sexism.
Lots of mechanics. Really. There are a lot of them. They are everwhere.
A guy called Piet Windpomp who sings at the annual "Wild Fees", which features braai contests, pooitjie contests and drinking.
Well, that's all I can think of now.
Will become a regular feature.
Any rural observations from your side will be appreciated.
A quiet Saturday night.
Quitting your job and two weeks later getting it back because you need it and they need it and no hard feelings. In fact, you have a little laugh and it's all blamed on pms.
A one-bedroomed flat, with a lounge, a huge kitchen, a huge bathroom (shower and bath), bedroom with built-in cupboards and a big outside yard, all in a very secure, quiet neighbourhood, for N$1000.00 per month.
A landlady who you know personally because she drinks coffee at your bistro everyday.
Pedalling to work on your bycicle. There and back in 5 minutes.
Driving to your sisters flat in the morning, at 7.30 and not passing ONE single car. This is morning traffic.
Shameless affairs.
Fitness classes with a guy called Mohamed (he of the steel) and meeting a woman they call "Get Lucky Sheila".
Fittness classes with a guy called Mohammed in an old, downfallen building with a sign that proclaims "Agra".
Fittness classes.
Steaks that come on extra big plates because they do not fit on the normal plates.
Driving to Windhoek, which is 320km away, for a party.
1 hour lunch breaks
Half-day off from work on your birthday.
Racism.
Sexism.
Lots of mechanics. Really. There are a lot of them. They are everwhere.
A guy called Piet Windpomp who sings at the annual "Wild Fees", which features braai contests, pooitjie contests and drinking.
Well, that's all I can think of now.
Will become a regular feature.
Any rural observations from your side will be appreciated.
May 3, 2007
Life Skills
It has been brought to my attention that I lack a certain life skill, apparently quite a handy one.
Patience.
If you google "patience quotes" you get a few million hits.
Which, to me, makes it seem that patience, as a virtue, might in fact be a bit outdated and overrated.
Patience has never been one of my strongest virtues. In fact, I often do look up quotes on patience, to remind myself of the suggested benefits that this virtue would add to my life.
Patience, as silence, in my opinion, is overrated. And, for some, like me, not a strong characteristic, because in fact, should we possess this virtue it would clash with other important characteristics that are part of who we are and make us what we are.
For instance. I have a dream. And I have no self-confidence. But I do have a kind of serrated determination and stubborness. Now, should we add patience to the no self-confidence and then mix in my dream and determination and stubborness, where would this lead? To me, lying in a corner, eating my fingers.
That I patiently regard my lack of the fullfillment of my dream, when in fact, it is not patience keeping me from my dream, but a lack of self belief!
But without patience, my determination sometimes (not always) makes it possible for me to follow, to pursue, to insist that my dream may come true! And therefore, patience is really nothing for me.
It is a lot like tank tops. Some of us look good in them. Some of us don't. Should I wear it just because it's fashionable?
Ambrose Bierce on patience:
"A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue."
Patience.
If you google "patience quotes" you get a few million hits.
Which, to me, makes it seem that patience, as a virtue, might in fact be a bit outdated and overrated.
Patience has never been one of my strongest virtues. In fact, I often do look up quotes on patience, to remind myself of the suggested benefits that this virtue would add to my life.
Patience, as silence, in my opinion, is overrated. And, for some, like me, not a strong characteristic, because in fact, should we possess this virtue it would clash with other important characteristics that are part of who we are and make us what we are.
For instance. I have a dream. And I have no self-confidence. But I do have a kind of serrated determination and stubborness. Now, should we add patience to the no self-confidence and then mix in my dream and determination and stubborness, where would this lead? To me, lying in a corner, eating my fingers.
That I patiently regard my lack of the fullfillment of my dream, when in fact, it is not patience keeping me from my dream, but a lack of self belief!
But without patience, my determination sometimes (not always) makes it possible for me to follow, to pursue, to insist that my dream may come true! And therefore, patience is really nothing for me.
It is a lot like tank tops. Some of us look good in them. Some of us don't. Should I wear it just because it's fashionable?
Ambrose Bierce on patience:
"A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue."
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